Cain and Caspian circled each other in tense, deliberate silence, eyes locked in a mutual promise of destruction. The snow drifted gently around them, catching on the edges of the scorched earth left behind by their clash. The sky, once clear, had surrendered to a heavy, swirling snowstorm—an omen, perhaps, of what was to come.
Caspian's breath steamed in the freezing air, sharp and ragged. He was weaponless, standing against a man armed with two black daggers, each etched with strange, jagged runes that seemed to pulse faintly with an eerie, dark energy. Cain's eyes were wild, his grin a grotesque slash across his pale face. His shoulders tensed, his stance loose and predatory—like a wolf toying with an injured deer.
Then Cain lunged—so fast it was as if the snow itself parted for him. His daggers flashed in the dim light, reversed in his hands like the fangs of some demonic beast. Caspian barely ducked in time as a dagger sliced through the air where his head had been, the wind of it sharp enough to sting. He aimed a punch at Cain's ribs, but Cain twisted fluidly, spinning low, and suddenly Caspian's world tilted as Cain's arm snaked around his neck in a brutal chokehold. Caspian's breath hitched, his vision narrowing as Cain's laughter hissed hot against his ear.
Cain's dagger kissed Caspian's throat—cold, cruel, and unyielding. Blood beaded where the blade touched, the promise of death hovering in the frozen air.
"It's a shame," Cain murmured, his voice dripping with mock regret, "I expected much more from a Sinclair."
His smile widened, revealing yellow, serrated teeth stained with ancient blood. "Your run ends here, little Devourer."
Caspian's mind raced. His lungs burned, but Zach's words rang in his memory—With a serious enough injury, you could die. It didn't matter. If he hesitated, he was dead anyway.
With a snarl, Caspian reached for the dagger pressed to his throat, grabbed it by the blade, and drove it through his own arm—through flesh, muscle, bone—and straight into Cain's side. A guttural hiss tore from Cain's throat as he recoiled, staggering back, dark blood seeping into the snow. Caspian tore the dagger free, gasping, his own blood pouring down his sleeve. The pain was blinding, but he didn't care. He had a weapon now.
Cain straightened, his grin twisted into something unhinged, a flicker of gleeful insanity in his eyes. He pressed his hand to the wound and cackled, the sound low and deranged, as if the pain thrilled him.
"And I thought I was the psychotic one!" he crowed, his voice lilting into a sing-song mockery. He ran his tongue over his bloodied teeth, eyes glittering like shards of obsidian. "All that for a puny little dagger?"
His gaze darkened. "Well, since you took one of my toys... let's not hold back, shall we?"
He tossed the remaining dagger high into the air, and as it spun, it dissolved into the falling snow. The flakes caught the weapon's dark energy, shimmering faintly as they spiraled around Cain's outstretched hands. The snow gathered, twisting and coalescing into a long, elegant shape—an ivory scythe, forged from the storm itself, its curved blade as thin and sharp as a sliver of ice.
Cain's expression was pure, sadistic joy as he hefted the scythe, its surface glinting with an unholy light. His grin split wider as he dashed forward, the blade whistling through the air. Caspian barely managed to leap back as the scythe carved a deep gash in the earth where he'd been standing, flinging snow and debris into the air in an explosive spray.
The storm surged around them, blinding Caspian as he struggled to regain his footing. Snow whipped into his eyes, and Cain vanished into the storm's fury. Caspian's breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation laced with pain, each exhale forming a thin mist of desperation.
A whisper of breath behind him—he spun just in time to see Cain's scythe descending. Caspian ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade, and stabbed Cain's leg with the stolen dagger. The blade sank deep, but Cain didn't flinch. His face, pale and stretched tight with unholy glee, showed no pain—only hunger.
Cain spun, his scythe sweeping in a wide arc that forced Caspian to dive into the snow. Cain's movements were unnervingly precise, each strike calculated to herd Caspian into traps, his blade carving through the storm with a grace that defied the chaos around them.
Caspian struggled to breathe, to think. His mind screamed for options, but Cain gave no quarter—he leapt and twisted, his scythe a white blur. Each swing seemed to carve deeper into the very air, sending shockwaves that rattled the ground beneath Caspian's feet.
Cain's smile never wavered, but it was no longer a smirk—it was a mask of something darker, deeper. His teeth glistened like wet bone. His eyes burned with an inhuman hunger. He was no longer just a man—he was the storm, the storm's blade, the architect of agony itself.
"You're strong, Caspian," Cain said, voice low and guttural, the syllables rolling like thunder. "But not strong enough."
He rose, levitating above the battlefield, the snow spiraling beneath his feet. The wind howled, the storm itself bending to his will. The air shimmered around him—dense, heavy, crackling with energy—and the snow began to glow, a sickly green light pulsing from the ground up.
Cain's lips curled. He snapped his fingers.
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the sky erupted—lightning, wild and merciless, speared down in jagged bolts that split the earth and trees in a symphony of destruction. The storm roared, swallowing Caspian in a fury of light and sound, and the ground trembled as a massive explosion tore through the clearing, reducing the forest to smoldering ruins. Blackened earth steamed, trees splintered, and the snow hissed as it melted under the scorching heat.
Cain landed softly, boots crunching on the scorched, cracked ground. The air still shimmered with lingering heat, distorted waves rising from the blackened earth. Embers flickered among the wreckage, casting a faint, sinister glow. The snow, once pure, had melted into dark slush, mingling with ash and soot, and the sharp tang of burned wood and ozone hung thick in the air.
Cain ran a hand through his wild, matted black hair, sweat glistening on his brow, the scythe balanced lazily across his shoulders. He smirked, the corners of his mouth curling up in satisfaction as the snow resumed its lazy descent, soft and gentle—mocking the violence that had just unfolded.
"A shame," he muttered under his breath, voice quiet, edged with dark amusement. "You would have made a fine puppet."
He turned away from the crater, boots leaving shallow tracks in the soot. The world seemed still, the storm finished, the nightmare complete.
But then—movement.
A faint stir in the smoke. A breath, ragged but stubborn.
Cain paused mid-step. His eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"It's probably just the leaves," he whispered, though the tightness in his voice betrayed the lie. He felt it—the wrongness, the impossible thrum in the air. The snow seemed to freeze mid-fall, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then a voice—calm, steady, defiant.
"I'm not dead."
Cain spun around, disbelief flashing across his face.
The smoke parted, and from the wreckage, Caspian rose—slow, deliberate, every movement radiating a quiet, burning defiance. His clothes were torn, blood streaking his skin, but his blue eyes glowed with fierce determination. The dagger—Cain's own blade—was clutched tight in his trembling hand, and around him, a swirling aura of glowing blue energy crackled, pulsing like a heartbeat, wrapping him in a storm of raw, unyielding power.
Cain's breath caught in his throat. His grin faltered, slipping into a tight, thin line. He took a step back, boots scraping across the ash-slick ground.
"H-How are you alive?" he demanded, voice breaking with disbelief.
The snow hung frozen in the air, each flake catching the eerie blue glow radiating from Caspian's form. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the crackling charge of energy.
Caspian's gaze locked onto Cain's, burning bright and unflinching.
The fight wasn't over. Not yet.
Cain's fists clenched at his sides, his face twisting into a snarl. For the first time, a flicker of something sharp and primal danced in his eyes—fear.
Caspian moved like a storm unchained, his steps striking sparks from the charred earth. His breath was steady, eyes locked on Cain's twisted grin. Cain lunged, scythe arcing down, but Caspian pivoted, sweeping low. The blade whistled past as Caspian surged forward, slamming an elbow into Cain's ribs. The impact sent Cain skidding back, boots carving lines in the ashen snow.
Caspian didn't relent. He charged, driving the dagger into a slashing arc aimed at Cain's chest. Cain twisted, the blade nicking his side, leaving a crimson line against the black robes. Cain snarled, but Caspian was already inside his guard, delivering a punishing knee to Cain's gut, followed by a swift, brutal uppercut that snapped Cain's head back, his teeth flashing in a grimace of pain.
Cain staggered, scythe swinging wildly—Caspian ducked, sidestepped, then caught the shaft of the scythe under his arm, yanking Cain off balance. He spun, twisting Cain's weapon free, and with a burst of strength, hurled it aside. The scythe clattered across the cracked earth, vanishing into the snowdrift. For a breath, Cain was disarmed.
But Cain wasn't done. His hands crackled with raw energy, snow lifting in a vortex around him. Caspian lunged—Cain lashed out, a fist glowing with green lightning. It connected, a glancing blow across Caspian's shoulder, the energy searing through him in a blinding flash. Caspian gritted his teeth, the pain sharp, but not fatal—he staggered back, arm trembling from the shock, breath ragged but unbroken.
Cain retrieved his scythe, spinning it with an elegant, deadly grace, his yellowed teeth bared in a feral grin. Caspian circled, dagger in hand, his eyes cold as ice. The wind howled around them, snow swirling like a blizzard of ash and sparks.
Caspian struck first. He surged forward, ducking low beneath the sweep of Cain's scythe, and drove his fist into Cain's ribs again, this time with enough force to lift him off the ground. Cain gasped, scythe slipping for a split second—Caspian took the opening, slashing his dagger across Cain's chest, sparks flying as steel scraped against the enchanted robes.
Cain roared, spinning his scythe in a wide arc, forcing Caspian back. He leapt high, snow spiraling around him, and with a guttural yell, brought the scythe down, the blade crackling with lightning. Caspian raised his dagger in a desperate parry—the blade sparked, deflecting the strike, but not before a bolt of lightning tore from the scythe's edge and blasted into Caspian's chest.
The world flared white-hot. Caspian was hurled backward, crashing into the snow, skidding across the ground in a plume of frost and smoke. He grunted, rolling to his feet, chest smoking, the fabric of his shirt singed and torn. His breath came in ragged bursts, but his eyes—his eyes burned with fury.
Cain laughed, spinning the scythe lazily. "Had enough, Sinclair?"
Caspian's voice cut through the storm, low and steady.
"No."
He raised his dagger, the blue energy coiling around him, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His eyes glowed, fierce and unyielding. The very air seemed to shiver as a strange power coalesced around him—ancient, heavy, a weight pressing into the earth itself.
Cain's smirk faltered. "What the hell—"
Caspian stepped forward, his voice calm, resonant, filled with a terrible finality.
"Past Pain Recollection."
Cain's eyes widened, and the storm froze—every snowflake suspended mid-air, the world holding its breath as Caspian's power surged.